


The Unforgiven

by millennialfalcon525



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Diary/Journal, Fanon, Feels, Graphic Description, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Swearing, Therapy, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-05 10:40:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14042442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millennialfalcon525/pseuds/millennialfalcon525
Summary: This fanfic takes place after The Big Empty. Dean decides to see Mia again as a legitimate client. He has a hard time opening up but at the end of their first session, she gives him a journal. He starts slow but will eventually reference various episodes and delve deeper into his emotions in a way we don't get to see in the show. See beginning notes for more in depth description!





	1. Entry 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [outloudemily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outloudemily/gifts).



> Unbeknownst to Sam and Jack, Dean decides to see Mia again. Even in the few minutes he sat in her office, he felt something. Therapy was a huge step for him as it is for anyone. Mia tells him how brave he is for making that decision and he laughs. She has no idea what he's been through. But at least with Mia, he can be honest. She's a monster too. His first session goes as well as it can. He's quiet. Even just allowing himself to feel is hard. Much less verbalize. Before he knows it, their time is up. Mia is understanding that he can only come to the office when he's in town but just before he leaves, Mia calls his name. He turns to her and in her outstretched hand is a journal. Leather bound with pages that looked like they might have aged alongside the rest of the bunker library. Dean isn't even sure when he last actually wrote something down. He doesn't reach for it. Just looks at it as if it might bite him. Mia shakes the book back and forth a little, giving Dean an emotional nudge. With a great deal of hesitation, his hand finally meets hers, taking the book. She asks him to write every other day. He gives her his best Dean Winchester bullshit face. She responds asking, "Once a week?" He nods.

_**Entry 1** _

_"No chick flick shit"_

The words almost glowed back at Dean from the top of the first page.

His headphones on, making his way through Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti, Dean tapped his pen on the binding of his new journal. It had been two weeks since he saw Mia. He hadn't even looked at the journal for the first week. He stashed it in his desk drawer under a few... suggestive magazines he knew Sam wouldn't ever rummage through. Last weekend, he'd gotten the book out and held it in his hands for a few minutes. Felt the leather under his rough fingers and looked around his room wondering where the best place to journal would be. "Is there a certain way I'm supposed to do this?" he wondered, incredibly annoyed. He'd never been happier to hear Sam yell for him. There was another case and he quickly tossed the journal on his desk and practically ran to see what Sam had found.

This time, he wasn't so lucky. Sammy was actually out of the bunker today. He thought it'd be good for Jack to experience some basic human activities. Dean couldn't be sure but thought they might have gone to see a movie today.

_“No click flick shit”,_ he read again.

Mia had told him to be ready for this to be difficult. He’d just stared at her. Difficult? More difficult that fucking dying? Repeatedly?!

He rolled his eyes and held the pen close to the page as if he was going to write more.

_“I feel”_ , he wrote. He audibly scoffed at himself and promptly scribbled out those two ridiculous words.

“Come on,” he yelled at himself aloud, a bit more gravely than usual. He thought, maybe, that if he wrote “No click flick shit” first, it would somehow make the rest of what he wrote less significant. Maybe it’d be easier? Maybe?

He wrote,  _“Maybe.”_  Then resting his head against the headboard, he closed his eyes and let "Kashmir" flow over him. He listened to the entire song before opening his eyes again.

Refocusing on the journal, he finished his thought.  _“Maybe this is bull-fucking-shit and I’m fucking fine.”_

He calmly closed the journal and set it on the bed next to him. He took off his headphones, setting them on the nightstand. He slid his legs over the side of the bed and slowly stood up as if he’d just been beaten within and inch of his life. Physically, he was fine. Standing next to the bed, he turned and looked back at the journal. He picked it back up. He was exhausted. How could this little book have taken so much out of him. Suddenly overcome with annoyance and anger, he threw the journal across the room. As he watched it disappear behind his desk, he knew it was time for a beer. Or 12. 


	2. Entry 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's makes a little more progress but still has a hard time opening up.

“Ok, you fucker.” Dean strode into his bedroom with purpose.

In almost a single step, he was standing in front of his desk. Wavering ever so slightly, the copious amount of beer setting him a bit off kilter, he knelt down to retrieve the journal from under the desk. Being overly careful not to hit his head on the desk, he managed to stand back up unscathed, albeit a little dizzy. With an animated glare, he looked around the room for the pen he had been using. Seeing it on his nightstand, he flopped across the bed onto his stomach. Once he’d retrieved the pen, he laid there for a moment. His elbows propping him up, the journal on the bed front of him, resting his head on one hand, and twirling the pen in his other. He then realized that his knees were also bent up behind him, ankles crossed.

“Nope!” he yelled, simultaneously getting up as quickly as he possible could. “Who am I, Cher Horowitz?” he said, followed by barely audible mumblings about not being a teenage girl.

“God damn it!” he yelled in utter frustration. He felt himself giving up on this. Not just the journal. On everything he and Mia had discussed.

Then, as if she somehow knew, he heard her voice in the back of his head.

_“Dean. You made the decision to come sit on this couch. That’s a brave decision. Even if you don’t say anything today, this is an enormous and admirable step.” He pushed his snide response to her out of his head and tried to find the rest of what she’d said, “Dean. If nothing else, I just want you to tell me why you’re here today.”_

_“Honestly, I don’t really know.” Dean mustered after a few moments of silence._

_Mia was quiet as if waiting for Dean to elaborate. When he didn’t, she started, “I think you do. When you, your brother and Jack first came into my office, it wasn’t rocket science to deduce the depth of the relationship you have with Sam. And the challenging relationship you have with Jack. It was also easy to see the connective energy between all three of you. Dean, if you’ll permit me to offer a guess?”_

_“By all means,” said Dean, with a little more snark than he’d intended. A mixture of curiosity and doubt appeared on his face._

_“I think that maybe… maybe you’ve never…” she paused for a moment, making Dean shift in his seat. “I think that maybe most, if not all, of what you have ever done,” she repeated for emphasis, “EVER done, was for Sam. Including this.”_

_Dean looked away. A single tear. They were quiet for a while. It seemed like forever. Dean knew she was waiting him out but he couldn’t engage. Not yet._

_Finally, he cleared his throat, “I guess… you’re sort of right… in some ways.”_

_“Dean, I’d wager that you may have never done anything just for yourself. From the little we’ve discussed, it sounds like you’ve lived your life on the back burner. Taking care of your brother, of your friends… of your mom… of your dad,” Dean shifted again. “… but never yourself. Do you realize? This. This right here, right now.” She motioned to the room, herself, their surroundings, “This is for you.”_

_Dean looked up at Mia, not sure what he expected. She held his gaze._

_“But what if I can’t…” he wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say._

_Mia continued, “This was something you did for yourself, Dean. Whether or not you can own that yet, you deserve to be proud of it.” Dean was tempted to look away again. But Mia gestured to keep him looking at her. “Dean, it’s also ok that you’re here for Sam. You’re here for Jack. For Castiel. For your mom. If that’s what you need to focus on to keep coming and to put in the work, that’s what you should do. Because this decision you made today… something people don’t realize is that you have to keep making it. Every day. Over and over again. And I know that sounds hard. But if you are here, I hope you know, that means you’re ready.”_

Just like that, Dean was back in his bedroom, starting at the journal in his hand. He could smell the leather, feel the crisp pages beneath his fingers. He sat down at his desk and opened the book.

_“No chick flick shit.”_ He read it again and chuckled to himself. He added, _“I’m writing in this God damn journal every week. For Sam. I’m writing in this journal for Cas. I’m writing in this journal for Mom. I’m writing in this journal…”_ he hesitated, _“For me.”_

Just then, he heard the bunker door open. He closed the journal, feeling like he’d accomplished a great feat. And he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, hope you guys enjoyed this! I enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> Let me know if you have any ideas for chapters! :)
> 
> Chapter 3 will get a little more involved! Dean has a breakthrough.


	3. Entry 3 – No Rest for the Wicked/Hell and Heaven (Time in Hell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a breakthrough and finds himself able to make a full journal entry about his time in hell.

_“I still think this is bullshit. I don’t know what the fuck Mia thinks I’m going to get out of writing shit down. In this stupid ancient piece of crap book. Where did she even get this thing? Antique Road Show?”_

Dean looked up from his writing, rolling his eyes at his own inability to form meaningful thoughts. He wasn’t even sure what constitutes a meaningful thought. But he was fairly certain it wouldn’t have anything to do with the Antique Road Show. Sitting back against the headboard again, Escape by Metallica blaring in his ears, specifically because he wanted to escape this ridiculous task that he’d somehow agreed to, he winced. He had other things to deal with. But he always did. And always would. So now or never?

“Ok,” he breathed out heavily and looked back down at the page. He still hadn’t even filled an entire page in the journal. For just a moment, he thought about writing bigger so it would look like he’d written more.

_“Where am I even supposed to start. I mean…”_ “Ellipsis,” he said aloud as he wrote the three consecutive dots, immediately realizing how weird it was that he’d said it aloud and quickly finishing his thought. “ _All the shit that Sam and I have been through. How am I supposed to pick what to write down?”_

He thought back and was surprised by how many memories arose when he gave them the opportunity. So many things jumped forward but then quickly faded to the background as something even more impactful forced its way toward his fingertips. With a brief widening of his eyes and slight annoyance, he tried to focus on the page in front of him as if it would guide him to a suitable topic. That’s when he realized that not only did he have all the trials and tribulations he and Sam had faced in the past decade or so, but there was also his entire childhood. Something he hadn’t allowed himself to think about… ever. Well, briefly when Mary returned. But he had quickly realized how dangerous that was and locked it back down.

He skipped a few lines and wrote, “ _My mom came back. But I don’t really know what to write about that. Especially now.”_

He rubbed the bridge of his nose for a few minutes and took a deep breath. At the very end of his exhale, his breath hitched. He thought of something. He still wasn’t sure it was even what he “needed” to be writing about… but it was something. He took a shallow, quick breath and held it.

Skipped a few more lines and wrote, _“I was in hell. Before that, well, before that I was attacked by hellhounds. In front of Sammy. I died and went to hell.”_

Dropping the journal to the side, he released his breath and leaned forward as he fully exhaled. His knees came up to meet his elbows and he sat for a moment, hands on his head, letting this feeling wash over him. He could feel the discomfort throughout his entire body. This must be one of the physical reactions to the emotion Mia had mentioned. He’d experienced fear before, God knows he’s experienced fear. He’s experienced sadness, grief, anger. He thought he’d experienced them all, to be honest. But this… it was all encompassing and deep. His body was safeguarding his mind.

All he wanted to do was curl into the smallest possible position he could. As if bringing his knees to his chest would stifle the fireball that had ignited in his gut. He took a couple deep breaths and squeezed his eyes shut. In this moment, he was actually happy Mia had taught him those stupid grounding exercises. It was like she felt it on him, the trauma… all of it. He took another deep breath and recognized the musty smell of the bunker and the faint scent of freshly cleaned sheets. He listened intently and heard the vents somewhere high above him quietly shutter in the wind. He could just barely still taste the burger he’d had for dinner and the beer he’d washed it down with. Finally, opening his eyes again, he saw his room. Plain and simple. And home. He felt himself beginning to relax.

Lowering his knees back to the bed and crossing his legs at the ankles, he picked the journal back up. Leaning back against the headboard for a moment, he closed his eyes and thought. What he had to say wouldn’t be perfect. He was starting to understand that… he just had to start writing.

_“There was nothing he could do. I remember it. The thrashing. The hound’s claws cutting through my skin. I can feel it now. Even without scars to point me in the right direction, I can see the damage like it was yesterday. Time slowed. I could feel my stomach tear. Hear Sammy screaming. That’s the last thing I saw from my eyes. I did see him crying… but that was… from above. That’s the last thing I remember before the darkness._

_I’m not sure if I can write about what I did there. This is the one thing… I have done terrible things, I have lied, I have killed… but this. There is no forgiveness. There is no going back to what I knew before. Before, I knew I was good. I had problems, obviously I had problems. But deep down, underneath all the bullshit, all the times I let Sam down, all the times I let Dad down, I still clung to the thought that I was good. Or could be._

_This changed everything.”_

Dean stopped again, taking stock of his emotional and physical state. He felt fatigue and knew he might not be able to write much longer but wanted to get this out. Wanted to unpack this weight.

_“I remember the day I told Sam about hell. I don’t blame him for not understanding. Not really. Like coming back from a mangled, bloody, infested fucking Narnia after you’ve lived a full life of agony. How could anyone grasp the idea of being tortured for 40 years. Tortured so far beyond what our minds can even fathom on earth. I know things that a person isn’t supposed to know. I feel things that people aren’t supposed to feel. Humans aren’t supposed to know these things exist or that they even CAN exist. This intense evil. Greater than anything I’ve ever known. Greater than Lucifer himself. I’m not supposed to know what it’s like to give in to that. To become it.”_

Dean felt his eyes begin to water.

_“Tortured for 30 years…”_ he wrote and then hesitated. Shaking his head, he scribbled out the last sentence until it was unreadable.

He sat for a few moments. Bringing his hand to the paper, he tried again. “ _Honesty.”_ He wrote. _“I was tortured for 30 years. I was sliced. Carved. Tortured daily past my breaking point. Every. Single. Day. That demon mother fucker would ask me if I wanted to be done with it. Done with the unbearable, unthinkable anguish that was unleashed on me. I told him no. Again and again and again._

_Until I didn’t.”_

Dean felt something happen. The emotion was here, it was present, in the room with him. Surrounding him. His eyes brimming with tears, he knew he needed to finish this train of thought. He felt compelled to get the rest out.

_“I told him “no” in a million different ways. I began distracting myself from the torture by thinking of new and better insults. As much as I thought it would never end, the variety of ways to say Go Fuck Yourself is not infinite. That kept me going for probably about 8 years. It’s so easy to write the number 8. Just one line. It’s such a simple number and in the grand scheme of numbers, a low one. But 8 literal years. An 8-year-old kid is basically a functioning adult by 8 years old. At least I had to be. 8 fucking years._

_I can’t really even be sure when it stopped. When I stopped trying to distract myself from the things they’d do to me. Somehow, they never did the same thing twice. Even so, a soul only has so many reactions. The pain became mute and I started to learn. Somewhere around year 10, I stopped feeling the pain altogether. At least, not in the sense I had been accustomed to feeling pain. Not in a human sense. I could not separate from it as I was already separated. I had already been stripped of every other layer of my being. So I became it. And it became me.”_

Dean looked up from the journal. He knew this wouldn’t make sense to anyone but him. He tried to remind himself that no one will read this. It’s only for him. He reread his last paragraph and continued.

_“I began to enjoy it. THAT IS SO FUCKED UP!”_ Dean couldn’t help but call himself out on it. TALK about people not understanding something. What he just wrote was SOME KINDA SHIT. He just stared at it for a while… almost in awe of the fact that he’d actually committed it to paper. _“I want to take it back. I want to unwrite what I just wrote. I wish it wasn’t true. And God damn it, it gets worse. Another 10 years go by and I commit each act to memory. I soaked it up. Christ, could it be any more fucked up that THIS is the only frame of reference I have for why Sam had wanted to go back to school? Learning, it was all I had to do. It was all I did. I wanted more._

_Finally, after 30 years of torture, there were no more surprises. I knew what was coming and knew how much it would take for me to break. I knew how far into the beating my lungs would collapse. I knew when my sight would give out. When each organ would rupture. I knew which part of my body elicited the most pain. I knew where I felt each and every piece of the pain. Do people know that? Do people know that if your elbow is shattered, you feel it in your neck and shoulders too? Do they know that when the flesh is stripped from your calf, you feel it between each of your ribs? Shit. I. Should. Not. Know._

_The more I think about it, maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe it had been training._

_That day is burned in my memory. When my training was over. The day I finally said yes. The day I got down and was whole. That initial happiness that quickly warped into a malevolence I’d never known much less contained. The day I put my knowledge to use and tore into flesh. I was good at it. I’ve never been so good at anything. I knew how to make the most out of a soul. They’d made the most out of me._

_Unforgivable.”_

He sat quietly, consumed in tears, regret and unimaginable shame. Suddenly, he felt a strange sensation. His left shoulder began to tingle. Dean reached up to touch his shoulder only to feel it radiating heat. Taking off his flannel and rolling up his sleeve, he saw the outline of where Castiel’s handprint had been. Just as quickly as the sensation began, it was over. Dean looked from his shoulder to the journal and back again.

“Really?” he exasperatedly yelled to the empty room. How have they not seen it all yet? Seriously! How is there still shit they’ve never encountered before?

At least the weird sensation had stopped the tears. He picked the journal back up.

_“I tortured souls for 10 years. Then, Cas saved me. Some stupid line about raising me from the dead. He loves it. Still says it from time to time. Anyways, I’m guessing, by the way my arm just went fucking Flaming Mountains on me,”_ (Sam was watching some documentary and decided to tell Dean all about the hottest place in China. Dean couldn’t help but chuckle at actually using the information in any form. Even if it was just in his journal. That would never be read by anyone.) _“I’m supposed to write in here about how Castiel was told to save me by the Almighty Chuck and I was chosen, along with my brother, to bring peace to the world. But this isn’t a fucking beauty pageant. Like I said. This one thing. This. Is my unforgivable.”_

He stared at the word “unforgiveable” a little bit longer. Suddenly, the door flung open and Sam was standing with one foot inside his room, laptop in hand.

“DUDE! Knock!” Dean yelled at his little brother, trying to be nonchalant while scrambling to hide his journal. Fucking hell, the LAST thing he needed was Sam snooping around. Especially after what he just wrote.

“I did, asshat. You didn’t hear me.” He said, tapping his ear to reference the headphones still on Dean’s head. They had long stopped playing music. Realizing he’d interrupted something but not sure what, Sam stepped mostly back into the hall and began to walk back to the library. He knew better than to pry into anything that Dean was up to in his room, especially when he was all in a tizzy like this. “Meet me out there? Got a case,” he called over his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. Be right there.” Dean said to an empty doorway.

“Unforgivable,” he thought once more. It was unforgiveable. What he’d done. He knew that. He knew it was beyond anything any sane person could even comprehend. But… but something had changed. He wasn’t sure how yet. But he knew something was different. He felt… different. He stared hard at the journal before placing it under his pillow.

“Not a very original hiding place, Samantha Baker.” He mumbled to himself as he left the room.

As he walked down the hall, he thought, “Who knew my early midlife fucking crisis would involve so many teenage girl references.” At that, his steps paused. How did he know so many teenage girl references? Shaking his head to put that train of thought to rest, he continued down the hallway toward the library and Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of Dean's first real journal entry?! Let me know!
> 
> And let me know if there's anything you'd like to read!!! 
> 
> I'll try to post another chapter or two in the next couple weeks!

**Author's Note:**

> I really liked Mia's character in the Big Empty. I liked how she called the guys on their bullshit and felt that Dean might too. Her background might also help him feel like he could tell her everything whereas a regular therapist might have him admitted. As a person who has always enjoyed psychology, is currently in therapy, and currently redirecting my career in that direction as well, I just loved the idea of going spelunking in Dean Winchester's mind. 
> 
> My thought is that I'm going to throw a couple entries on here that I would like to read/write but would LOVE if folks would let me know if there are any episodes that they'd like Dean to revisit in his journal. I'm VERY new to fanfiction and would love any feedback or suggestions anyone can muster. 
> 
> I should also mention that I ship Destiel hardcore so intend to have that shine through in some places but in a way that's still very true to Dean's character. I come from a household that wouldn't be accepting of those feelings and plan to use some of that insight when portraying Dean's internal struggle with it. (He'll get there, I promise! Lol.)
> 
> Let me know what you guys think and if you have any requests for entries! ALL seasons are game as Dean would naturally remember things as they come to mind when journaling. No set order. :)
> 
> His first few entries are short as I imagine it would be hard for him to start writing in a meaningful way right off the bat (it was for me). Chapter 3 starts to pick up. :) 
> 
> I'll keep adding chapters as I'm able!! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!!!


End file.
